


Move It

by SweetDeceiver



Category: T.Rex (band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 13:56:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1268878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetDeceiver/pseuds/SweetDeceiver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marc auditions for a new percussionist and immediately wants to hire Micky because he’s so good looking. So of course, he seduces him before he gives him the job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Move It

**Author's Note:**

> Written for babzz for xmas_rocks
> 
> I know this isn't exactly the way it happened (according to how Mickey usually tells it), but this way it actually fits the prompt, which was more important.

The restaurant was busy, all the little tables filled. Well, he’d chosen this place because it was the hippest place to be: June had told him so. Marc repeated this to himself to reassure his anxious mind. He was here to meet this guy Pete had told him would be the perfect replacement for that runaway traitor Steve, and the thought made him nervous. He’d scoped out several people already, and none of them were in any way what he was looking for. The ad he’d put out had gotten lots of replies, but whenever he thought of it the more he thought he didn’t want to actually read any of them. They were probably all from creeps, and he didn’t have the attention span to sort them out anyway. June would do it, if he asked, but he’d rather avoid it altogether.

What was he going to do if he didn’t find anyone? He couldn’t drop the band; he couldn’t join another because that never quite worked. And he couldn’t quite admit to himself that it was harder to replace Steve than he had thought, let alone ask him to come back. So this guy’d better be something good. 

He sighed violently, and checked out his reflection in the window next to him, which looked out into a dark alley. Well, he still looked good, he thought, patting his hair, and fussing with the collar of his green long-sleeved shirt. June had bought it for him and he knew it looked especially good on him, bringing out the colour of his eyes. He felt a bit better, knowing he looked right, and was in the right place. It was important to make the right impression, from the very beginning. He wiggled in his seat, and pulled some leaves from the bonsai tree on the table. 

Gooood, wasn’t it one o’clock yet? Or was that cat late? He wished he had a watch, and squirmed around trying to find a clock in this place, but obviously it didn’t have one because clocks were for squares. Well that just showed you: hippies were idiots. He wondered whether he should flirt with the girls in the corner, or the waiter, perhaps, who had long, golden hair that waved, like Robert Plant’s. Sexy. But just as he was trying to catch his eye, someone came up to him. “Hi,” a soft, high voice said. Marc looked up, eyes narrowed but his cherub’s mouth curled in a smile. A man was standing next to his table. 

“Hey.” Marc said. “You that cat I’m supposed to be meeting? For the band?”

“Yeah.” the man said. He looked at Marc shyly from under long dark lashes. He didn’t really undertake any action after that, he just stood there looking pleasant. Marc blinked. This man was beautiful. Thank you, God. All that kosher eating, finally paying off.

“Well, sit down, man.” he said. “I’m Marc Bolan.”

“I’m Mickey Finn.” Mickey said, sitting down opposite him. Marc giggled. Mickey looked at him steadily, smiling a little, used to the reaction.

“Great name. How did you come up with that?” Marc said. He stole a glance at Mickey, eyes alight with laughter.

“It’s my real name.” Mickey said, placidly.

“Get out of here, nobody’s called that.” Marc said. 

“I am, too!” Mickey said, leaning forward.

“You serious?” Marc said, noting the determined look on his face.

“Yeah!” Mickey said. He leant back again, enjoying Marc’s look of surprised delight.

“Well, that settles it.” Marc said, staring into space. “You are definitely going to be in my band.”

“Really??” Mickey slammed a hand on the table in excitement. “Er, shouldn’t you hear me play or something?”

“Nah, you don’t need to do that.” Marc said. “But hey, maybe you want a drink or something?” He turned round to look, and the waiter came sauntering over. He ordered, and while Mickey listened bemusedly to the options, Marc took the opportunity to sort out his impressions of him so far. 

He had a pretty face, with features that were delicate without seeming feminine, great soulful dark eyes and the smooth pale skin and dark hair that Marc loved. Thankfully he did not affect a beard, Marc thought, and his hair was clean, glossy even. Marc liked the playfulness of the hippies, but the dirt really had to go. He liked some rules in his rebellion, and while authority might be overthrown as much as anyone could want, he felt a conservative repugnance against overthrowing all the dictates of fashion. But this guy was neat as well as hip, wearing a beautiful multi-coloured shirt and pale yellow trousers, creaseless and without a spot on them. “Man, how do you keep your trousers so clean?” Marc said, mesmerized. Mickey laughed, incredulous. “No, seriously, I go out and they’re covered in something within five minutes. And I’m so careful, too.” 

“I don’t know.” Mickey said, slightly shy because of the attention. Marc shook his head. 

“You can’t keep anything from me if you’re going to be in my band.” He said, assuming a look of cunning. “There are no secrets in my band.”

Mickey looked worried. “Really?”

“No.” Marc said. “And… and, also we should share everything.”

“I don’t know if I should join, then.” Mickey said, perturbed. “I won’t let anyone else touch my bike.” Marc’s eyes widened.

“You have a bike?”

“Yeah. A Commando.” Mickey said.

“Fancy that.” Marc said. “I’ve always wanted a bike.” he added wistfully.

“You can’t drive mine.” Mickey said decisively. 

“I don’t drive, man.” Marc said. “Can’t I ride behind you?” Mickey looked relieved.

“Oh, yeah, of course.” He said. “Everyone does.”

The waiter returned. Marc couldn’t resist batting his eyelashes at him as he took their orders, running his teeth over his lips, hoping that Mickey was watching. He couldn’t let him get away, he just couldn’t. He had to make him like him, he didn’t care how. 

As a matter of fact, Mickey was watching, but he was more amused than jealous, in awe of Marc’s bold-eyed beauty and his easy flirtation. He never really thought about people’s motivations, and he took Marc as he found him- eager, brave and, as he felt the little tug at his heart when they talked and laughed together, extremely lovable.

 

Their food came (it seemed to consist of brown rice with brown rice and brown rice on the side); the afternoon flew by. Marc watched Mickey surreptitiously, his quick eyes noting everything, though his brain took a while to process the information. He really liked Mickey, and he was really worried that it wouldn’t work out. Why it wouldn’t, he didn’t know- he just had a feeling he couldn’t shake. 

Mickey seemed to like him too- his eyes were all shiny when he looked at him, and he was reacting to everything he said. But sometimes he could tell that he was uncomfortable, and he glanced around as if scared. Marc had already vaguely noticed his habit of crossing his legs at the ankles and clasping his hands when he was nervous, though he could not put it into analysis or words like that. He only saw Mickey moving, invisibly, away from him and that could not happen. He had to try harder.

“You know I used to run errands for John Lennon.” He said, moving around in his chair and leaning slightly across the table.

“Did you?” Mickey said, also leaning forward, though he checked himself. 

“Yeah, a few years back when they were still small.” Marc said. He shook back his hair in an impressive way. 

“What was he like?” Mickey asked.

“He’s a cool cat.” Marc said. Mickey smiled awkwardly at this. Marc kept his eyes on him, still suspicious. They were quiet for a minute, and Marc thought about how he could try to get Mickey back to his place. It didn’t take him long, and he had to grip the table with both hands to subdue the powerful feeling a good idea like this gave him. Sometimes he really was a genius.

“You must give me a lift home.” he said, imperiously, sitting up straight and his eyes shining. There was just a flirty tilt to his head, a speculative set to his mouth that would have caused more intimate friends to suspect that he had a plan, but Mickey was giddy with pride at his new found friend and enjoyed flattery and flirting. He was more than up for this little game.

“Alright.” He answered, equally excited and with a slightly more subdued sparkle in his eyes. He got up with just a slight swagger, swinging his leather jacket over his shoulder. “You ever been on one before?” 

“No, never!” Marc said, hiding a giggle. He followed Mickey, in his oddly bent and stalking gait, almost as if he was trying to hide in his shadow. “Which is why I just love you for having one.” He put an unnecessary emphasis on the word ‘love’. Mickey glanced at him, wondering, and smiled his elegant smile. Of course, he had had sex with men before, but the act was something he associated (in his own experience) with smoky parties and drugs and drink, hairy musicians, artists and models and (sometimes and rather more abstractly) with old society queens who had pink curtains and gilded lamps. It didn’t really occur to him that it would be in the heads of sober people in the bright, technicolour London daytime, and so he just smiled at Marc’s short-lived moments of campness, which surfaced at odd moments and in a non-threatening way.

He smiled still when Marc tucked his arm into his, adopting a sort of strut as he noticed the people on the street’s mean little stares. He enjoyed feeling like a hustler, and he enjoyed their envy and even their anger and fear. Mickey noticed these looks, too, interpreting them vaguely as envy of friendship, beauty and youth, and floated on in his own dreamy way, buoyed up with the assurance that he possessed all of these.

When they reached his bike, he climbed on, feeling suddenly eerily vulnerable as he spread his legs over it under Marc’s fixed stare. It was only a second’s feeling, though, and he got over it as soon as he had set it up, and nodded at Marc to get on. Marc fidgeted for a while, running his hand through his hair several times as he fidgeted around the back seat, walking up to it, backing away and then trying again. “Come on,” Mickey said, feeling powerful. Grimacing nervously, Marc finally struggled onto the back, hindered by his own fear, and immediately clamped his arms around Mickey’s waist. He held him so tightly Mickey could feel his heart beat, hard with excitement, faintly through the leather, and the jut of his cheekbone against his back. He didn’t comment, though, just revved up the engine. “Here we go,” he said, and off they went. 

Marc felt a mixture of reckless and terrified, ecstatic with the speed and the feeling of flying, and the nearness of Mickey’s body, yet dizzy with fear. He knew he wouldn’t die like that, but still the feeling was kind of like dying. His eyes shut tight, he clung as if drowning, feeling as if he was about to thrown off every time the bike slowed down. After a while, though, he got used to it a bit more and felt like he should be making more of this opportunity.  
Every time he stopped having the sensation of being hurled off or crashing, the nearness of the other man’s body became impressed on his mind and his heart beat as quickly with another emotion. He knew this wasn’t the time to act, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to enjoy himself at least a little beyond the soul-rending thrill of the bike ride.

He relaxed his grip on Mickey’s body slowly, wanting to touch him and also to feel braver. In trepidation, he let his fingers wander a little, down to the belt on Mickey’s leather jacket. He felt his stomach muscles jerk taut under his touch and stopped- he didn’t want them to crash. But the idea added another little thrill. He smiled to himself, and let his hand slide up again. The engine revved up, and his heart flew into his throat and he felt like he was doubly in love.

 

They arrived at Marc’s flat both almost trembling with excitement. Mickey looked at Marc already expectant of new orders, as he parked his bike. Marc looked a bit grim, and stood staring at the wall. “Man that was wild.” He said, shakily. “Let’s go inside now ok?” Mickey nodded, meekly waiting for Marc to show the way, but Marc firmly grabbed his arm and dragged him into the building. All the new little signs of affection and affirmation were so heart-felt and intense that Mickey’s heart nearly leapt. They ran up the stairs like two happy children, out of breath and wind-swept. When they entered the flat, it seemed to Mickey to light up with their presence.

It was cluttered and kind of dark, full of curiosities and furniture from flea markets and old people’s houses, in that paradoxically Victorian style of a certain bohemian subset of hippie. It showed the effects of Marc’s tendency to collect and forget about random things, hoarding them like a child hoards interesting stones. Mickey only noticed the barest facts about the place, though, he was too caught up in being there to pay much attention. Just as he began to notice the awkward, tense silence that had now fallen between him and Marc, a door opened on the far end of the room and a woman came in. She coolly glanced at Marc and then Mickey, before approaching Marc and greeting him with a kiss. “Hello, love.” She said, running a hand through Marc’s hair before turning away and looking at Mickey again. She was as small and as petite as Marc was, dressed in an impressive multi-coloured silk dress that seemed supernaturally new and clean for the surroundings. She had long hair, and a precise, delicate beauty that was not immediate obvious but which suited her equally delicate build perfectly, with large, long-lashed, hooded eyes and a perfectly oval face, a daintily curved mouth and pale skin. “You’re back early.” She said, shooting a glance at Marc in a way that made it seem there was something more to her words. Marc immediately withered at her stare, running his hands through his hair in agitation.

“Well, it went so well there was no point in lingering.” He said. 

“Really?” she said. She waved her pretty hand at Mickey. “Hi, I’m June.”

“I’m Mickey.” Mickey said, feeling stupid in a way he rarely did around a beautiful woman. 

“He’s in the band now.” Marc added, looking at June enthusiastically and eager for approval. June was looking at Mickey in an assessing way, thin brows arched, though her mouth was smiling. She didn’t really seem that impressed, but was apparently trying to see the bright side.

“Cool.” She said. “I’d best leave you to it, I was just off to meet someone.” She gave Marc another, more searching, look. Marc looked innocently back at her, proud of his conquest. “I’ll be back in a few hours.” June said, finally, and gathered her handbag to her. They kissed again- slightly longer this time. “He’ll do.” She whispered in Marc’s ear. Marc winked at her.

“Bye babes.” he murmured as she left, silk gown rustling. The door shut softly behind her.

“She’s beautiful.” Mickey observed, feeling slightly jealous, but of whom he couldn’t figure out. 

“Yeah.” Marc said. “Isn’t it wild that she married me?”

“You’re married?” Mickey said, associating the term vaguely with squares and also his parents. Who, come to think of it, were squares.

“Sure.” Marc said, turning to look at him again. “Don’t worry about it though.” He winked at Mickey, who turned a little pink at the innuendo. ‘Come in here, man.” Marc said, strolling into an adjoining room. “You can pick the sides.” Mickey hesitated as he looked around what turned out to be the bedroom, as messy as the rest of the house but more intimidating. He liked Marc, but he didn’t know what he meant by all these advances. Did he want him to be in the band or did he want to have sex with him? What was he supposed to do, give in or not, if he wanted to keep him? What did people do in these cases? He wasn’t used to these kinds of problems, and his own indecision made him even more confused. 

“I don’t know.” He said, wavering in the doorway. “Maybe I should go.”

“Why?” Marc said, from where he was kneeling on the floor. He was looking through his records, which stood in rows against the wall. “Come on, you gonna leave me?” 

“No.” Mickey said. “I mean. I don’t know.”

“If you don’t know, why don’t you come over here and think about it.” Marc said, giving him an impish sidelong look. “Hey, what do you have to say to that, yeah?” Mickey laughed, nervously. 

“Well, alright.” He stood next to Marc, gazing benignly down at the records now strewn out on the floor. 

“Help me choose.” Marc said. “Dylan or The Shadows?”

“The Shadows.” Mickey said. He didn’t really know about music aside from the kind he heard from people he knew. He felt jittery, and like he was enjoying looking at Marc, folded up on the floor, face contorted with concentration as he carefully put the record on, a little bit too much. He put up a hand to run it across his face, and the record player began to churn out the clunky, tinny sound of I’m Gonna Get You. Luckily, he was too busy being embarrassed to notice the song.

Marc got up, looking at him with an expression of cunning in his green eyes. “Stop worrying.” He said, and with a hand on his arm guided Mickey gently to sit down on the bed. “I like you, man.” 

Mickey said nothing, and the two men looked at each other, suddenly without any jokes or words, still and silent as though time had suspended. Marc’s hand seemed very heavy and warm now, and the feeling of anticipation made Mickey feel almost angry with anxiety.

He took a deep breath. Everyone was living for the moment, and he wanted to embrace the exhilarating feeling of being loved, suddenly and unexpectedly and by someone who was clearly a step above the rest of humanity. He loved living in the moment, and so he quite determinedly put his hands on Marc’s waist and drew him near, not bold enough to make their bodies touch entirely because it made his pulse flutter. But he pressed a few kisses next to his pretty mouth, and then, hesitantly, touched his lips and parted them, and they kissed, velvety and with the wild energy that had characterized their whole time together.

Marc’s hands were insistent, pushing at the back of his head, fingers hidden under his dark glossy hair, and on the sharp curve of his hip, thumb hooked into the waistband of his trousers. Now that they were finally close, he felt such a need for contact and connection that it made him feverish and hyperactive, like a rush of performer’s anxiety. One moment his heart beat fast as he bruised his lip against Mickey’s teeth, when he lunged in too eagerly, and then he felt like this was going by too quickly, and that he should be more careful, and slower.

He just loved the feel of his lips and the softness of body, and couldn’t really stop himself from pushing a hand up that beautiful silk shirt, carefully because he didn’t want to ruin it, and feeling the smooth skin, the curve of his waist and angle of his ribs. He felt he should comment on this, but he didn’t want to break the kiss and so he just touched, relishing, and Mickey’s hands moved down, digging their fingers into his arse as he pulled him harder against him. Marc giggled a little. “Man, slow down, I’m not running away.” Mickey grinned sheepishly at him, but Marc wriggled into him, his cock pressing hard against the other man’s belly. His arms slid tighter around his small waist.

For a moment they just held each other, warm and close. Their breathing was quiet, but shallow and rather fast, and Marc could feel the rise and fall of Mickey’s chest strain against his. He nuzzled his face into his shoulder, moving his hands just little bits to feel the skin of his back, the feel of that naked skin under his fingers. Then, with a little toothy smile, he threw himself down upon the bed, dragging Mickey with him. They both laughed- over-excited, bubbly laughter. 

“This ain’t half odd.” Mickey said, pushing his hands in fists against Marc’s chest. 

“What, you mean like, queer?” Marc said, smiling slyly and fixing him with the sharp look that Mickey already knew meant that he was joking. “What’s wrong with that?” He pulled at Mickey’s shirt, and pushed up against him, his jutting little hips pricking urgently into the other man’s body.

“Nothing.” Mickey said, shaking back his glossy long hair and looking so happy that Marc wanted to rip his clothes right off. But he had a great respect for fashion, and so he undressed him carefully and chastely, and then undressed himself, keeping a close eye on Mickey’s bemused face, his white body curled up on the bed. 

It was different when they touched again, now, and more serious. Every touch and every glance seemed to provoke something, and Marc wished he could think, think about what to do instead of just wanting to touch, and just enjoying. 

He shook his hair back angrily, frustrated at the loss of control. He needed to focus. With little nips of his lips and teeth, he made his way down Mickey’s body, pale and lithe in the bright afternoon light, and slid his clever tongue around his cock. Mickey’s response was quick and intense, his limbs jerking up for a moment, but he seemed to subdue himself, and let his head fall back on the pillows. 

Marc’s eyes lit up, and he continued his little vicious teasing, now with his tongue, then his lips, his hands making sure the other man’s body was kept in its place, so that he could do what he wanted. He loved the noises, though, the little groans and the way his body tensed up, and, with a devious little look, he suddenly took all of him in his mouth, slowly, relishing, drew back, and then in again. He felt his heart speed up with every little movement and sound from Mickey, and he smiled inwardly at his own power, his own skill. Some people called him arrogant, but he always felt he had the right to be proud. He felt Mickey’s body grow more tense and his hand reached up and clawed into Marc’s hair, messing it up. Time to let go. 

He released him suddenly, and, with some difficulty, climbed over him, feeling buzzed and powerful. He caressed Mickey’s face in a tender way, and buried his face in his neck, nuzzling his hair. His eyes were still closed as he came down slightly. He swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple pointy in his smooth throat. “I want to…” Marc murmured, his voice low and harsh. 

“Oh.” Mickey said, voice shaky. He stretched, sighing, and put his arms around Marc’s waist, pulling him down against him. “Yeah alright.” he said. They kissed, briefly, teeth meeting. 

“Hold it.” Marc said, and disappeared for a moment to find lube somewhere. “This stuff’s complicated.” Mickey laughed from the bed. Marc shook his head. It wasn’t very romantic, but then pain wasn’t romantic either. And besides, there was plenty of time for that, anyway, he thought as he rejoined him on the bed. Who would have thought the day would end up being this great, he thought, sliding his slim body over Mickey’s, pushing his legs back and his hands clutching hard at his shoulders.

The nervous tension they both felt at the beginning made him start slower than usual. Marc shifted his position a few times, feeling uneasy and a little uncertain. It was so strange to have sex with someone who didn’t have set ideas about it, who didn’t have some idea of what they wanted Marc to be. They glanced at each other every now and again, looking for confirmation, and whenever they caught each other’s eyes, they’d laugh, a little nervously.

As he got used to the pull and thrust, the slim hard body of Mickey underneath him, it got easier, quicker, and he felt a dizzying thrill, a more powerful, better version of the one he had felt on the motorcycle. He groped around between them for Mickey’s cock, found it and tried to time it so they would come at the same time, pushing his face against Mickey’s chest and speeding up to match his rapid breathing and tremble of his body. But it was too hard, and he found it easier to just enjoy the sensation, riding out each wave of pleasure, and when he came, he felt like it lasted forever, the relief and sheer joy so great in the rush of release, washing away the last bits of anxiety.

Now, he thought, as he sank down and felt Mickey’s arms slide soothingly around him, everything was alright. It was a relaxing thought, and he gingerly let himself give in to it. He felt his arousal ebb gently away, and a sense of calm security take its place. They lay like that a while, skin against skin, getting accustomed to the other’s body, the newness of their presence. There seemed little use for words, now. The record was played out, and a crackle of static filled the room.

 

Eventually, despite the lure of lingering in the warm intimacy of the bed, Marc clambered out and wandered, thinking restlessly. The future looked much brighter already, and he couldn’t wait to fulfill all that promise. He kept thinking of what Simon Napier Bell had told him. Simon always said there was a peculiar strength in pairs, if you found the right combination. Marc, knowing Simon well enough to know there was often a core of truth in his exaggerated dictums, felt powerfully the truth of this one. 

Pondering it, he sauntered up to the mirror and looked idly in it, at himself, and then at Mickey who was lying smoking quietly in the bed. His own face was as pretty as it had been before; slightly more flushed, abrasions on his mouth from kissing, his hair mussed and his eyes hazy. Somehow it seemed more beautiful to him now, though, as he combined it with Mickey in the background. He recalled to mind how they had looked together earlier, when he had carefully kept an eye on their reflection as they passed by shops and restaurant windows. 

Though he paid lip service to late 60s ideas of all-powerful all conquering love, it was not something he believed in. He did believe- vaguely- in fate, though, and there was something that made him think that he and Mickey were meant to be together, that this was what Simon had meant when he talked about how much a difference it made to have the right combination of two. And yeah, love was alright in its way, but he preferred success. And success felt so much closer now, and so much more right. 

Great things were about to happen.


End file.
